The King's Return
by MerryLittleMess
Summary: My take on the first scene of season six. One-shot.


**A/N** : This idea has been occupying my mind for some time now. I wondered whether I should continue this scene into a multi-chapter story, but then decided to let the show rest in peace and just post this one-shot, mainly because I needed Arthur to return. Enjoy! And please let me know what you think about it!

 **Disclaimer** : If I owned Merlin, the show wouldn't have been cancelled. Sadly, I don't. All rights to BBC.

* * *

The fog hung low above the still water of the lake of Avalon. The silhouettes of passing birds could be seen with perfect clarity when one looked at the surface and although the sun had not yet fully risen, there was a strange warmth emanating from the lake. Martin, the smith's son, had always loved the quiet mornings during which he'd usually collect eggs and whatever edible roots he could find for breakfast. Since his mum had passed away, Martin had had to grow up quickly, but it was during those moments that he still dreamed and pretended to be someone else, sometimes even one of the knights of the Round Table.

Every time old Christie told stories about their adventures, Martin tried to listen in, claiming his eyes were not as huge and filled with wonder as the children's. One day, Martin always thought, some stranger would come and take him away to fulfill his destiny. And as if answering young Martin's call, small waves began to lap at his feet, soaking his worn leather boots. Startled, the boy rose from his crouch at the water's edge and examined the lake. There! A form was slowly emerging from the fog.

"Hello?", Martin called out with a shaking voice, not daring to speak very loudly. Perhaps he should call for help, but his curiosity kept him rooted to the spot. If the darkness was out to get him, he wouldn't be able to escape it anyway. Yet the warmth from the lake had not disappeared and the wooden outline of the boat he could now discern did not seem menacing. As the smith's son, Martin knew a thing or two about craftsmanship and knew immediately that the boat was very well made, as was the shield that was leaning against the stern. Without wasting any more time, Martin waded into the water, thereby breaking every rule his father had taught him. However, his Dad had also preached about helping people in need and there was a man lying within the boat.

"Hello, I'm Martin, I'm trying to help, please don't kill me." Cautiously, the boy gripped the edge of the wood and propelled the boat onto the shore. Then he stopped dead at the sight in front of him. The man was wearing shiny armor, decorated with fine, incredibly detailed symbols, even finer clothing dyed in deep colors and boots of soft buckskin. Martin couldn't resist and touched the chain-mail, tentatively sliding his fingers across the links.

"Oh!" He could feel the man's chest rising, which made his concern shift to the sleeping warrior that had not yet moved. "Sire, are you injured?", Martin tried again. This time, he got more of a response. The knight - because it had to be a knight, dressed and muscular and manly like he was - shifted and a faint moan escaped his lips.

"Sire? Sire, please wake up. I'm just a boy, I can't carry you all the way home", Martin pleaded, his hand still placed on the man's chest. Suddenly, the knight's arm shot forward and gripped the boy, who squealed in terror. He was being used as leverage while the knight pushed his torso into a sitting position. Martin frantically tried to get free, now being watched by cold, empty blue eyes. When the grip of the knight finally eased, the boy fell back onto his behind and therefore missed the change within the knight. Some semblance of vitality and light returned to his eyes while his face contorted in pain, his hands flying to his head to protect himself.

Seconds later, Martin had gotten back on his feet and the man in the boat had dropped his hands into his lap. He coughed violently while the smith's son looked on in bewilderment. Martin couldn't decide whether he was lucky to have found the knight or whether he was a fool for reaching out. His knees were as weak as a babe's when he thought about the consequences of his actions, but the knight did not seem to want to do him any harm, at least at the moment.

"Sire?", Martin asked, this time from a safe distance. He had only now recognized the red coat the knights of Camelot used to wear. His agitation grew, fingers getting sweaty when he remembered the tales about the lake and he put two and two together. It couldn't be... could it?

"Er... your Majesty?" How did one properly address a King? And how did one address a King that had been dead for eight months? The title only seemed to confuse the blond man within the boat, though, who coughed again and with some difficulty pushed himself onto the bank of the lake, where he collapsed. As soon as his shocked state would allow, Martin knelt next to the... next to him. "Sire, please let me help."

Together they managed to get upright again, although the knight was still swaying on his feet. Martin suspected that only the man's determination kept him from blacking out and he was relieved when some time later they reached the village. To Martin, his time with the stranger had felt like hours, but the regular people were still mostly asleep, hence not more than a couple of minutes could have passed.

The few men and women that were already outside to tend the livestock froze at the sight of the pair. Murmurs rose into the chilly autumn air, then everybody rushed to meet the man and the boy. Before they could take the stranger away from him, Martin looked up into his pale face and posed the all important question: "Who are you?". To his disappointment, the knight stared at him and then shook his head, obviously frustrated and confused. "I don't know."

* * *

The holding pen for the chickens was almost done and most of the villagers had stopped giving him queer looks. I guess I should be thankful for the small mercies, the stranger thought with a hint of sarcasm while he used a wooden hammer to ram the pole into the dry earth.

He'd lived at the small village called Tennior for five days now, enjoying the simplicity of working, eating and sleeping. Somehow he doubted his life had been as uncomplicated before his 'blackout', how he used to call the blank space in his head where memories of his childhood and recent past should have been.

People called him Robbie. Robbie the knight, whose armor and cloak were now collecting dust in a barn. Robbie, whose hands were calloused but who didn't know anything about farming. Robbie, who did not feel at home in Tennior. Partly, he accredited it to the fact that some villagers, especially innkeeper and the merchant, sometimes gave him knowing looks, like they had met him before. If they did, why would they want to keep it a secret?

Every day, Robbie's restlessness and anger grew, because he did not like to be messed with. In general, patience didn't seem to be his strongest suit.

Thankfully a messenger had been dispatched to Camelot, requesting help in form of a knight or a healer. Robbie didn't know what he would say to the knight once he arrived. There was no story to tell, really. All he knew was that he'd woken up, gone into the village and stayed. Right before he fell asleep at night, the face of a beautiful, dark skinned woman usually drifted into his mind. With all his heart he knew that he had to find her, that she'd set things right again. If the knight won't arrive any time soon, I'll head out on my own and find her, Robbie argued silently, the same way he had countless times during the last few days.

With one last blow, the framework of the holding pen was finished. Satisfied, Robbie nodded to Martin, who had seldom left his side since he'd awoken in the boat and who was now working beside him, implementing the iron net around the poles. While the boy completed the task, Robbie went ahead to the local Inn to get himself a drink after a hard day's work. On his way, he was again struck by the strangeness of the village. People were always talking in hushed tones, the houses were boarded up like there was danger lurking nearby and the small watchtower was always manned with at least four people, all of them young and in good health. Yet it had been quiet with no disturbance whatsoever, which didn't seem to reassure the villagers. The one time Robbie had asked about it, the inn had grown utterly quiet. Walt, the town's drunk, had replied that otherwise, one wouldn't see the darkness approaching, but nobody had wanted to elaborate.

Shaking his head about the villager's fear and superstition, Robbie walked on, noticing the fine mare in front of the stables. His pace quickened, then he opened the door to the inn and found himself face to face with the messenger from Camelot. It was a knight who sported longer hair than average, slight stubbles from not shaving for a few days and warm brown eyes that were wide with astonishment. For an instance, Robbie's first impulse was to reach for a weapon. His insides were screaming 'Enemy!' at him. Gradually, however, the feeling was replaced by a vague sense of deja-vu and happiness.

"I should know who you are, shouldn't I?", Robbie asked, knitting his brows together in concentration. There was something nagging at him, but every time he grasped at it, it slipped further away like a leaves caught in a storm.

"Yes! Yes, you should!", the messenger exclaimed, laughing out loud. "My name is Gwaine and I've come to take you home, my King", he continued, his voice filled with so much emotion that Robbie did not believe his statement to be a joke. On the other hand, how could an announcement like that ever be true?

"King?", he repeated, moving the word around in his mouth, "Are you sure?"


End file.
